


Ghost in the Shack

by ThatDarnLakeSiren



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Basically a Ghost Stan au, Finally posting it, Made it up myself; enjoy!, Major character death - Freeform, Spectrunkle Stan Au, Violence, but not really, sorta thing I'm going with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:57:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDarnLakeSiren/pseuds/ThatDarnLakeSiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley pines has been hiding a deep, dark secret from everyone, deeper than even what's below the Mystery Shack, for years upon years. However, after a couple of screw-ups just after Stanford's return, his secret is about to come out in a huge flood of memories and emotions . . . he can just hope that they'll still love him and not see him as a threat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Silver be my friend near me  
> Gold be the best friend who never faltered  
> But better than all the riches  
> This world could've offered
> 
> Was the brother next to me."

Stan stared down at the blood on his hands, on his chest, the ground. He looked up, frozen in numb shock. Everything was silent. No, not quite silent. He could hear everything, distantly, but from through a thick fog and down a long tunnel. He could hardly believe it though. Ford stared at him, mouth open in what Stanley could only assume was a scream.

Stanley rocked back and forth on his heels and toes, feeling strangely off balance, unable to feel a thing. No, actually, he could feel something. An intense burning sensation, radiating from his burn scar, and a milder one, more like a tickle or sunburn, on his left arm. His arm . . . he looked down at it, at his upper left arm. There was an arrow . . . an arrow was poking out.

_'So that's where all the blood is coming from. Huh.'_  he thought distantly, reaching slowly for the arrow. He grasped it loosely, beginning to pull it out, but stopped with a cry of pain, shifting a step back. The pain in his burn skyrocketed as the arrow suddenly felt like a hot iron, his nerves screaming in pain and protest. Someone is screaming. It takes Stanley a moment to realize it's him.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eyes and jerks his head that way, trying to take a step back . . . .

Only to step on to air. Stunned, he stares up as a familiar face comes into view, staring at him with horror. The persons mouth is moving. He can't hear anything. Stanley's not sure he wants to. But he manages a weak grin, holding out his right hand, despite the pain that lances through his right shoulder.

"Be back soon, Ford. High six?" he mouths. Or maybe he shouts it. He's not sure. He doesn't look down. Instead, he closes his eyes and counts slowly. He's made it to thirteen when his body collides with the ground, knocking the wind out of him, and probably breaking all his ribs and a leg. His neck snaps; he feels no pain as all becomes dark.

* * *

Ford stared, frozen, over the edge of the cliff. It's a long way down . . . . it overhangs the old minecart rails; they were on one side of the Floating Cliffs. He couldn't even see his brother as he fell among the trees. His voice is hoarse with screams and shouts. He can't bring himself to move. With a low sob, he falls to his knees, gripping the grass tightly between his fingers, tears streaming down his face.

"St-stanley. . . I'm sorry . . ." he sobs, hunching his shoulders, guilt and heartache curling around his heart and squeezing the breath out of him.

"Th-this is a-all my f-fault . . . I-I'm s-sorry. . . I-I'm s-s-sorry . . . "

He's not sure how long crouches there, crying and sobbing, but the sun is starting to set when he finally wipes at his eyes and stands, casting a final glance down over the cliffs' edge before turning and heading for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For all that we love in this world  
> For all that we hate  
> Never mistake one for another  
> Or else you're all to blame
> 
> If you love something truly  
> Then hold it close to you  
> Or otherwise the fates may decide  
> To steal it away from you,"


	2. Flaming Memories and Bullet Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read on if you dare. I am evil and crying right now. 
> 
> HELLO, NAUGHTY CHILDREN IT'S FEELS TIME!?!?!?!?!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Look to the past  
> For memories and more.  
> Take your time and re-explore  
> Until you find what you're looking for.
> 
> Don't ignore your old mistakes,  
> And keep true your love; don't fake.  
> Hold onto what you hold most dear,  
> And don't let go and keep them near."

_Stanley drives down the road, pressing down harder and harder on the gas. Rico's goons aren't that far behind him; he can only hope that he can divert them away before they target his brothers house. He rounds a corner at break-neck speeds. He's a few miles out of Gravity Falls now, but he doesn't stop, or slow. The further he goes, the more he realizes that the speed is rising higher and higher on his speedometer._

_He_ can't _slow. He can't_ STOP _._

_He hits the breaks and lets up on the gas, but they're not working. Spotting something in the road, Stan screams "HOT BELGIAN WAFFLES!?" and swerves hard, his right shoulder burning and protesting the sudden movement. The car swerves and flips over, rolling and tumbling before slamming into the ditch._

_It happens so fast that all Stan can register is that one minute he's swerving and the next he's hanging upside down and that his forehead is being soaked in something warm and wet. He's just starting to check himself when he smells something burning and hears a gunshot; somehow managing to peer out the window, just as a car speeds away._

_A moment later, the gas tank exploded._

_His ears are filled with ringing and a great heat is beginning to overcome him. Fire; fire is spreading quickly through the borrowed vehicle, heating the air, making it hard to breathe and stiflingly hot. He struggles to get himself loose from the seatbelt, but the flames are already licking at his chest. Trying to scream in the overheated air, thrashing._

_Thrashing so hard he slams his forehead against the steeling wheel and knocks himself out. He's not sure how long he's been out, but when feeling starts returning to him, he doesn't feel so great._

_He's hot, as if he has a bad fever, his forehead stings from some cut or another, the back of his right shoulder is smoldering in pain, and he aches all over. Slowly, he pushes himself upright, glancing around to take stock of his surroundings._

_He's sitting among pine trees, near a road. In a shallow ditch in front of him, there's a car. It's upside down, and it looks totaled, besides having recently been on fire. There's still some flickers of flames here and there. He can hear sirens in the distance. In a few short minutes, two police cars and an ambulance shows up, as well as what looks like a news van._

_Slowly, he drags himself upright, gripping the bark of a pine tree to help keep his balance. He considers going down, to ask for help. A bullet whistles past and lodges itself inches from his hand in the tree. He lurches back, just as there is a flash of light from down there, half-blinding him. Turning, he runs as fast as he can, just as another bullet clips his arm. He can't even feel the pain, with the adrenaline coursing through his system._

_He runs and runs and runs, not pausing for breath, until he is deep within the forest. He stops finally, hands on his knees and heaving for breath. The silence is deafening. He can't even hear his heart pounding in his ears. . . ._

_Pushing himself upright again, he cautiously lays to fingers against his wrist. Nothing. Fear creeping in, he presses his hand against the side of his neck. Nothing. He takes a deep breath and lets it out again, slowly. His hands are shaking._

_"It's okay . . . it's cool; nothing to worry about . . ." he tries to reassure himself. "I'm just . . . I'm just too shaky to feel it properly . . . yeah, that sounds . . . that sounds about right. . ." he mutters to himself._

_He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, then feels his wrist again. He can feel a pulse. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he glances around himself and starts to backtrack, retracing his steps. By sunrise the next morning, he's found his brothers cabin. Taking some medication for the apparent fever he has and fixing up the nick he got on his arm, and a long cut on his forehead._

_He takes a quick look at the burn on his shoulder, and to his surprise, it's gotten worse. Before, it had faded into a dull pinkish color, but now it was angry and red again, like it was two weeks after getting it. Not near as painful, but if it had suddenly turned from scar to burn again, then something was wrong. He treated it best he could and went to get some sleep._

_He found, however, that he wasn't tired. He was hungry, very, very hungry, and he ached all over, as if he'd clung to the edge of a cliff for several hours, trying to haul himself back up and away from the yawning abyss below. . . ._

_. . . but he wasn't tired enough to go to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally stood and pulled on some clothes. Grabbing a little money that he'd made on tours so far, he headed into town._

* * *

Stanley grunted as he pushed himself upright, clutching at his arm as dull pain raced through it. He opened his eyes and glanced around. Still on the forest floor . . . good, good. At least he won't have to look for his glasses. Looking at his upper left arm, he takes a deep breath and wrenches the arrow out. He bites his tongue to hold back his scream, but a muffled whimper escapes and some tears spill down his cheeks.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He does this again, but slower. He repeats this for a few minutes, gathering his energy near himself. Holding his other hand over the slowly-bleeding wound, he exhales again; more forcefully, and presses his palm over the injury. He hisses in pain, but it quickly heals over.

Looking down at his hands, he sighs in relief as the blood slowly disappears. Pushing himself upright and checking to make sure he has no other injuries, he looks over himself.

Suit, fez, and and glasses are all there; good. Glancing around, Stan quickly find his bearings and heads for home.

* * *

Ford felt numb as he entered the house. He was only half-glad the twins were gone for the summer. Winter was already fast-approaching. A conversation from earlier that morning came to mind.

_"Heck, soon as it snows, we could build an igloo!"_

_"Stanley, I'm not going to build an igloo. You'd just drag me in there for a campout or something in below-freezing temperatures."_

_"Aw, come'on Ford! It'll be fun. At least a snowman. Come'on; one snowman?"_

_"No."_

_"Or a snowball fight?"_

_". . ."_

_"I know you want too."_

_". . ."_

_"_ Please _, Ford?"_

_". . . alright."_

Ford shook his head, clearing his mind of these memories. He had to figure something out. With a jolt, he realized that he probably should've at least searched for . . . searched for his brothers body. Grabbing his coat and making sure he had a pistol of Stans' he'd found on him, he headed for the door. He'd barely stepped through the doorway when he crashed into something else.

He fell over with a yelp, pushing himself up swiftly to see what it was. In front of him, sitting up and rubbing his head, was Stanley. He froze.

Stanley looked up at him, readjusting his glasses. He tried for a smile. "Hey, Ford. Miss me?" he asked quietly, voice a little hoarse. He coughed into his fist as he stood, swallowing dryly, before offering his hand to help his twin up.

Ford accepted it, allowing himself to be led back inside, trailing his brother into the kitchen as he got himself some water, going on about it being quite the lucky break that he landed the way he did.

He was just starting to fix up some coffee when Ford finally spoke. "Stan, stop." his voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. Stanley turned to face him, a troubled expression on his face.

"Ford? What's wrong? I uh . . . I didn't scare ya' that bad . . . did I . . ?" he asked worriedly; but there was a trace of suspicion and slight fear there, too, that Ford only just caught.

In one motion, he stepped forward and thrust the muzzle of the pistol against "Stanley"s chest, over the heart. His "brother" froze, eyes wide with shock, staring at him. The fear in his eyes were very real now, and he didn't move a muscle. Just stared at Ford in a pained and pleading way.

"Stop pretending . . ." Ford muttered, raising his voice when "Stanley" opened his mouth to answer. " _STOP **PRETENDING**_!" he practically roared, shoving the pistol more forcefully against his "twins" chest, narrowing his eyes and holding back sobs.

". . .F-ford, take it easy . . . i-it's me, Stanley . . ." his "brother" tried to placate him, speaking softly. Somehow, the fact he was trying to comfort him just made it all the more wrong; if he recalled correctly, Stanley had been to jail on three different occasions and been locked in a trunk. He should have better instincts than this. Like trying to swat the gun away, or fighting back.

Ford only growled, tears welling up in his eyes. "Stanley was shot by an arrow . . . right here!" he prodded the spot on his arm with his other hand, noticing the wince his "brother" gave. The fabric was completely whole and unscathed. "You're not my brother . . . just reveal yourself already, Shapeshifter!"

The Shapeshifter-disguised-as-his-brother did nothing. Only stared at him wide-eyed. A sad, accepting look passed through his eyes, and he slowly tried to back away. Ford followed him, step-by-step, keeping the pistol leveled and pressed to his chest. "Stanley" was pressed into a wall when he finally decided to speak.

"Ford . . . please. What can . . . what can I do to make you believe me?" "Stanley" asked softly; desperately.

Ford felt hot tears stream down his face, and he gestured wildly with his other hand. "I don't know!" he shouted, pretending not to notice how his "brother" flinched. "Things have been  _terrible_  the past few hours and we keep avoiding the conversation about it and you don't even  _know_  what I went through in the portal and and and . . . . ." he trailed off in a sob, wiping furiously at his eyes with his other hand.

Cautiously, Stanley raised his hands and started to try and pull his brother into a hug. Ford reacted immediately, instincts kicking in, thinking the Shapeshifter was trying to strangle him-

_**.;:BANG:;.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dear brother, please don't blame yourself  
> Dear brother, please don't cry  
> Dear brother, it would've probably  
> Happened either way this night. . . .
> 
> Don't grieve to hard for me, my brother  
> And please don't fall apart  
> I beg you not, don't so hard you cry. . . .  
> Dear brother. . . .dear twin, I think I've died."


	3. Blood and Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shuffles feet nervously* Sorry fro abandoning this story for so long. Well . . . here it is. I have some more scribbled up, for another chapter. . . . not sure how long this'll go, but enjoy for now, I guess. *hides in the Shame Box*

Stanley flinched back, eyes wide with shock. Ford stared, numb. It couldn't be real . . . it just couldn't be. This . . . this had to be some sort of trick. But no - the blood seeping from his brothers chest was red; wet, sticky, and warm.

Hands moved to cover the gaping hole, Stanley starting to slide down the wall as his strength left him. Ford dropped the gun, gently grabbing his brother by the shoulders and helping to lower him to the ground. He hesitated to touch, but gently pulled his brothers hands away, trying to assess the damage. It was bad . . . very bad.

Right through the heart. Apologies began to tumble from his mouth as he tried to stop the bleeding, tears falling from his eyes as he started to sob. Stanley just looks up at him with wide brown eyes, eyes he's known since they were small children, eyes he saw near-everyday, even when they were separated for ten, then another thirty years.

Eyes that he shared and saw whenever he looked in a mirror.

Right here, right now, these eyes revealed pain; physical pain, sadness, and urgency. There was no anger, no bitterness, no hatred; Ford could detect none of these. Instead, Stan reached up with a blood-stained hand, clumsily trying to wipe away his brothers tears, leaving small smears of crimson on Fords' cheeks, tears mixing with the blood.

" . . .Ford . . . Ford, l-listen to me . . ." he croaked, dissolving into a coughing fit.

Ford wiped at his eyes, trying to quiet his sobbing.

". . .F-ford, n-no matter . . . wh-what happens . . . after th-this . . . you g-g-gotta go d-" he breaks off into another coughing fit, this time even weaker than before.

Ford shushed him softly, gently running a hand over his face. "It's okay, Stanley . . . i-it's gonna be o-okay . . ." he lied, as more tears welled into his eyes, and he tried to keep from sobbing.

Stanley gained an annoyed look, even as his eyes started to become glassy and unfocused. ". . .th-the base. . . ment . . . lab . . ." he rasped out, struggling to hang on. " . . . g-g-go th-there . . .pr-prom . . .ise . . .me . . ." he begged.

Ford slowly shook his head no, denying that this was real, praying to wake up from this nightmare.

Stanley weakly reached out and grasped his brothers hand loosely. ". . . .F-ford . . . pl-please . . . tr. . . ust . . .me . . ."

Ford managed a nod, sobbing. "I-I promise . . ." he got out.

Stanley seemed satisfied with that, a small, pained smile stretching on his face. He suddenly stilled; his grip loosened, his breathing stopped, his face relaxed. Ford gently squeezed his brothers' hand, starting to cry over him. His grief was quickly turned to confusion, however.

Stanley was . . . fading. Fading away . . . .

In disbelief, Ford watched as Stanley became more and more transparent. With sickened surprise, he noticed the bullet, still inside his brother, through his skin and clothes. He shuddered, but tried to hold onto him, whispering "No, no, don't leave me, please. . ." in a pained, scared mantra.

Within a minute, Stanley had dissolved into nothing. The bullet and Stanley's glasses fell to the floor with a dull clatter and click. Even the blood had faded away. There was absolutely no sign that Stanley had ever existed.

* * *

After a time, he recalled his promise, and numbly made his way to the underground lab. He dully wondered what he would find.

A younger Stanley, curled up just-opposite of the metal desk containing the red-hot magical ward was not what he was expecting. He wasn't sure what he _HAD_ expected, but it hadn't been this.

Stanley looked almost exactly like he did nearly thirty years ago; jeans, red jacket, mullet . . . a burnt, gaping hole in the back of the jacket, a fading scar of a burn, turning from angry red to a paler pink around the edges. Deeper in, it turned from pale pink to powder blue.

Ford wasn't sure how long he stood there, motionless, but when Stanley suddenly shifted with a low grunt, he forced his legs to move. Crouching next to him, he gently reached out to lift his head. The skin was cold; too cold to be alive. He pressed two fingers into the side of his neck; no pulse, either. Ford hesitated, then reached out to gently touch the burn; the reaction was instantaneous. Stanley smacked his hand away with a low growl, pushing himself upright, peering at Ford with one eye.

"Well don't _poke_ at it . . ." he grumbled groggily. As if he'd only just been woken up early. As if he wasn't, somehow, much younger than he should. As if he wasn't colder than a corpse and lacking a heartbeat. _As if Ford hadn't just shot him upstairs._

Ford flinched back, trying to get a grip. He'd been caught in mind-traps before, on the other side of the portal. Despite subtle differences, he had found key factors that always allowed him to figure out if it was fake or not; and, probably most importantly, how to get out of them.

Stanley opened both eyes, giving him a worried frown. "Ford? What's wrong?" he asked, before looking down at himself. ". . .dangit." he mutters, running a hand through his long hair with a grimace. "Thought I had it this time . . ."

"Stanley . . . what the heck is _going on here_?!" Ford shouts, gesturing wildly.

Stanley winces, glancing down at the ward on the desk, scratching he back of his neck. "Long story . . . very long . . .look, I can explain everything, but please . . . " he looked up at his twin pleadingly. "Could I have something to eat first? Or at least some coffee?" his entire form flickered a moment later, like a candle flame; blinking out then back into existence.

Ford blinked, shocked, but Stanley looked closer to panic. "Please, Ford!" he begged, standing and taking a small step closer. "Please. I don't want to step out of this Plane just to watch you mope and mourn for a week before I can get back; please, Ford; trust me." he was swaying on his feet, having to hold a hand to the wall for balance.

Ford took a deep breath and nodded, keeping Stanley in sight as they went back upstairs.


End file.
